


One Last Chance, My Love

by xxSparksxx



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-31 02:20:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8559526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxSparksxx/pseuds/xxSparksxx
Summary: He wanted to hold her tenderly, to kiss her gently, to try to show her in deed as well as words how much he regretted hurting her and how much he loved her. To show her that he truly loved and cherished her, that he had never stopped doing so even though he had not always held it uppermost in his mind. Even though he had not always shown her. For if ever there was a woman deserving of being loved, of being cherished, it was surely Demelza.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Because so much was left unsaid between the conversation in Nampara and the embrace on the cliff top.
> 
> Some lines of dialogue appropriated and/or mangled from the novel.
> 
> Thanks to rainpuddle13 and mmmuses for everything.

_“My true, real, and abiding love is not for her. It’s for you. She will never come between us again.”_

There were tears welling up in her eyes, a sob threatening, clear to see in the tremble of her lips and throat. Ross hadn’t seen her cry in months. She’d clearly been crying that morning when he’d found her on the beach, so many weeks ago now, but she’d shed no tears when he was there. If she had cried about his betrayal, she had not let him see the tears. But they must have been there – or perhaps not. Perhaps she had held it all in and only now, now that he had laid himself bare and been honest with her, as she had wanted all along...perhaps it was only now that the tears could find some release.

But still she said nothing, and Ross felt still some barrier, some wall between them that meant he could not reach out to her, as he wanted – to hold her, to wipe the tears from her eyes and kiss her as he wanted. Not passionately, not with lust. He wanted to hold her tenderly, to kiss her gently, to try to show her in deed as well as words how much he regretted hurting her and how much he loved her. To show her that he truly loved and cherished her, that he had never stopped doing so even though he had not always held it uppermost in his mind. Even though he had not always shown her. For if ever there was a woman deserving of being loved, of being cherished, it was surely Demelza.

He swallowed, and looked down. “I don’t ask you not to go,” he said quietly. “God knows, you’ve the right to do what will make you happy. But not to your father. Spare me the thought of you in that man’s house.”

Demelza stirred a little then. “He’s my family,” she said, speaking just as quietly as he had. The rain outside was nearly loud enough to drown them both out. “Where else could I go?” she added. There was a note of desolation in her voice that had been absent before, when she had so fiercely proclaimed her virtues and her control over her own choices. _“I am fierce and proud and steadfast and true, and I’ll not settle for second best.”_ Ross heard it and took it as a sign that some of his words, at least, had pierced through her veil of disinterest. 

“Go to an inn,” he suggested. “We have money enough. _Please_ , Demelza, don’t go back to him. And,” he added, glancing behind her at the open door, “not tonight. Don’t go tonight. The morning will be better, when it’s light – you can’t go anywhere in this rain, you’ll both catch colds, and we’ve no doctor but Choake, now. Go in the morning, if you must go.” He didn’t want her to go, desperately needed her to stay, but at least if Demelza agreed to stay tonight…at least then he would have more _time_. Time to talk to her, to apologise, to try to make her believe that he was being honest, that he wanted only her, that he loved only _her_. 

“I…” Demelza turned towards the door. Ross could sense her indecision. One wrong word, he knew, and she would be gone, rain and dark notwithstanding. He held his tongue. “I don’t know,” she said at last. There was a catch in her voice. “You – I don’t know.” She lifted her hand to push her hair away from her face. There was blood seeping through the rough bandage on her arm, Ross saw, and the sight of it made something inside him clench painfully.

“Let me redress your wound,” he offered. “You’re still bleeding. Look.” He reached out a hand to her, palm up, but didn’t try to touch her. Not yet. Demelza stared at him for a long moment. There was still wetness glimmering in her eyes, and one silvery trail down her cheek. He longed to dry her eyes, to kiss away the tear that had fallen, but he didn’t dare. He stood waiting for her move, waiting to see if she would take his offered hand. He felt he was holding out his whole heart to her, and if she would not touch him it would be like a blow to that organ, but she had demanded honesty from him, and she deserved his vulnerability now.

She took his hand.

Hope settled upon Ross like a yoke over his shoulders, like a burden, but one he was glad to take. This could still turn sour, there was so much that yet remained unsaid, but she had taken his hand, and that gave him more hope than such a simple gesture had any right to give him. He expelled a breath, full of relief, and Demelza’s lower lip trembled again as she fought, still, against tears. Another fell – just one more, down her right cheek, to match the one on her left. Ross didn’t comment on it. This was a kind of truce, but eminently fragile, as thin and breakable as an egg shell. He was acutely aware that he had so often said the wrong thing to her, these past few months, in his clumsy attempts to heal the breach between them, and the wrong words, spoken now, might make her lost to him forever.

Instead he gave a gentle tug to her hand, to urge her to come with him, back into the parlour. Demelza followed without protest, letting him lead her across the room to the bench chair before the fireplace. The fire was flagging a little, and once Demelza was seated, Ross rattled the poker in the grate and added more coal. It had once been a luxury, to have a coal fire in the parlour, rather than one built of driftwood, but now it had become commonplace, an ordinary kind of extravagance. Once again, Ross thanked a God he wasn’t sure he believed in for the miracle of Wheal Grace. But money, he had discovered these past weeks, was worthless without the one person with whom he wished to share it. Without Demelza to take joy in it with him, without her letting him spoil her as he wanted, to come to town with him and choose new furnishings, new crockery, new clothes…without Demelza, Ross took less joy in his prosperity than he pretended.

“I’ll fetch water, and a fresh bandage,” he said, thrusting away such thoughts. “I won’t be long.” He looked at her for a long moment, willing her to say something, to promise that she wouldn’t disappear as soon as his back was turned. Demelza looked back at him at first, but then her eyes flicked away, to stare into the fire. Ross swallowed his undeserved disappointment. No promise would be forthcoming, and he had no right to expect it. He nodded, the slightest of movements, and silently vowed that he would trust her – in this and in all else. He left the parlour and resisted the urge to look back.

It seemed to take an age to heat a kettle of water, and all the while Ross paced the kitchen, terrified that Demelza would slip away unheard and yet refusing to show any sign that might be taken as distrust in her. At last the kettle boiled. Ross tipped the water into a bowl, acquired a clean towel and a roll of clean linen bandages, and returned to the parlour. Demelza was where he had left her, sitting beside the fire, looking calmer than he was sure she felt. She turned her head to look at him as he came in, but otherwise remained still and silent. Ross crossed the room to her, put the bowl down on the floor, and knelt before her. 

Demelza inhaled sharply. “Don’t, Ross,” she murmured. “Please. I’ll go to the table –,”

“No, this is fine,” Ross said. This was more than fine; this was how he should be, on bended knee before her begging her forgiveness. But he wouldn’t do that, aware of how motionless she was and aware, too, that behind the exterior stillness was a wounded animal ready to flee at the first sign of danger. “May I?” he asked, pausing just before touching her. The blood-soaked dressing needed to be taken off. Demelza’s fingers twitched, settled back into stillness briefly, and then she held out her bandaged arm. 

Ross kept his head bowed, his eyes lowered, his focus on tending to her arm, deliberately not looking to see what expression she wore. He carefully untied the knot that had held the bandage in place and began to unwind it. The outer layers were easy enough, but underneath, blood had dried and congealed and made it harder for him to get the bandage off. He dampened the towel and tried to soften the dried blood. Demelza shifted a little, let out a deep breath that was not _quite_ a sigh, but Ross dared not look up at her. He dared not distract himself from the task at hand by seeing if she seemed saddened, or angry, or worst of all, by seeing if she wore that polite, frosty mask that she had shown him so often, lately. He did not dare. He unwound the last length of bandage and set it aside. 

Now he saw her injury for the first time, and it made anger bubble up inside him. Ross strived to squash it down. He could go to Trenwith and demand satisfaction from George, but he fancied George had already discovered the more serious consequences of injuring Mistress Demelza Poldark. He had felt such a surge of pride when he had discovered the villagers – people Demelza had tended in sickness and childbirth and poverty – had risen up against George because _Demelza_ had been hurt. All these other slights and injuries would have been accepted, for it was true that George had the right to enclose his land if he wished, though those lanes had been public rights of way for decades. But they had not accepted an injury to Demelza. Not an insult to her. Ross had been so proud of their fierceness on her behalf, and proud of his wife, who had earned such loyalty with hard work and with her own affectionate nature.

The wound was bad enough that the impulse, the thought that George deserved a beating for sanctioning this, threatened to develop into action. He knelt before her and, for a while, could not continue tending the injury. But eventually Ross conquered his anger. It was Demelza that was important now; her needs, her comfort, her feelings. Not his own. He must focus on the task at hand.

“You’re lucky Tom Harry isn’t a better shot,” he said, wetting the towel again so he could clean the wound. “He might have hit your hand, and then you might have lost the use of it, at the very least. Or worse.”

For a moment he did not think Demelza would reply. Then she said: “I think ‘twas meant as a warning shot.”

“A warning shot should not have _hit_ you,” Ross grumbled. “I can see where the bullet grazed you. Look, here.” He didn’t quite touch the wound, but he traced the air above it and imagined the path of the bullet. It might easily have hit her hand; as it was, he could see how close it had come, skimming across the heel of her hand and across her wrist. It was still bleeding, though sluggishly. It seemed more likely that she’d dislodged a growing scab in her exertions earlier than that the wound had bled continuously. Ross added it as another black mark against George in his mind. “Who bandaged this earlier – Prudie?” he asked.

“Nay, Ross,” said Demelza. “I managed fine by myself.” 

Ross glanced up and was arrested by the blue-green of her eyes, the sheen of tears that had begun to return. She was pale and weary, his beautiful wife, and, for the present at least, all her pain seemed to be etched into her face. He altered his hold on her hand a little, so he could brush his thumb against her pulse. Demelza closed her eyes, as if in response to his touch, and Ross swallowed hard and resumed cleaning her injury. She held still, her hand not so much as trembling in his, until he accidentally pressed too hard on what was clearly a tender spot. Then she hissed through her teeth, her eyes opening again. 

“I’m sorry,” Ross said at once. “Does it hurt much still?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes, it does.” She looked down at him, and Ross met her gaze, accepting all the pain she showed, all the reproach. She was not talking just of the wound on her arm, and they both knew it. So he would not look away from her now, would not flinch from anything she wished to say. She had wanted honesty, and she had given him plenty of that over the past months, but things felt different now. He tried to remember if she had ever admitted her hurt before. She’d shown it in her actions, of course, and said so many things that had told him clearly how hurt she had been, but he could not remember her actually acknowledging that she was hurting. Not in such plain words. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again. Demelza’s lower lip began to tremble again, just a little. Tears threatened her once more. Ross had never been able to stand seeing her cry; it tore at him, like broken glass ground into his heart. He dropped the wet towel onto the floor and lowered his head, resting his forehead on her knee. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Demelza, I am…I am _so_ sorry.”

“’Twas not your gun that shot me,” murmured Demelza. Ross shuddered, picturing it so clearly: the new timbers of the fence, that bully Tom Harry and his shotgun, Demelza sent reeling from the near-miss. It could easily have been worse, but Ross could not count that as a blessing right now. He had not been apologising for the wound to her hand.

“No,” he agreed bitterly. “No, the weapon I wielded was far more destructive, and caused much more harm.”

“Ross…”

“No, I must say this,” Ross interrupted her. He didn’t look up, didn’t lift his head from her knee. He could not bear to be looking at her if she rejected him again, now. “I must tell you how sorry I am that I ever hurt you in the first place. _You_ were so undeserving of any harm. All you have ever done is love me, and I…I treated that as if it was worthless.” He heard her breath hitch, and though she said nothing, she did not push him away. Ross clung to that as a thin tendril of hope. “I was cruel,” he went on, “and thoughtless, and I would have only had myself to blame if you’d gone off with McNeil.”

“Ross,” Demelza said again. There was agony in her voice, and it hurt to hear it, but agony – _any_ feeling – was better than the cold, casual indifference she had assumed towards him over these past months. “Ross, there was never – I never _felt_ anything for him.”

“You wanted to hurt me,” Ross guessed. “And I can’t blame you for that.” At last he lifted his head, but still he could not look at her. Instead he took up the roll of linen bandages and began to dress her wound. He wound it around and around, from her palm to halfway up her forearm and back, making sure it was tight enough to be secure but not so tight that it would cause harm. “I want you to know,” he said as he worked, “that I don’t doubt what you said about what happened with McNeil. I was shocked, and – and jealous. But I don’t want you to think that I would disbelieve you, after that first jealousy. Of course I believe you. I do trust you, Demelza. My dear Demelza.”

Demelza tried to pull her hand away from him then. “I can do it,” she muttered. “Let me go – Ross –,”

“I’m nearly finished,” he said, glancing up at her. She looked almost wild, that wounded animal still so near the surface. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks were pale, her whole expression alive with a kind of desperate panic. Like an animal caught in a trap. Ross let go of her at once, swallowed around a lump in his throat, watched as she cradled the injured hand close to her chest for a moment before she secured the end of the bandage with a knot. Her hands were shaking a little. “Does it hurt to hear that I love you?” he asked. “That _you_ are the woman I love, that I trust you, that I am sorry for all the harm I’ve caused you?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, it hurts, for you don’t mean it.”

“Demelza –,” Ross began, but Demelza cut across him.

“I should be _glad_ to think you prefer me,” she said, “if I could trust it. But how can I trust you, Ross? When I know that sometime again, next month or next year, you will see her again and love her again and I’ll _still_ be second best?” Tears were overflowing from her eyes; she blinked them away but more came. Ross hesitated for a moment, but then he took a risk. He lifted his hand and gently brushed away the tears that fell down her cheek, touching her with just his thumb, the tiniest of contacts when what he wanted was to take her face between his hands, to hold her, to kiss away the tears and to swear never to give her cause to cry again. But she wouldn’t allow that, and he knew it, so he limited himself to this, knowing that even this might be rejected.

“No, my dear,” he said softly. “That will not happen. She means nothing to me now.” She did not push him away from her, but Ross didn’t risk anything further. He kept wiping away her tears, first from one cheek and then the other. “I don’t ask you to trust me, my love,” he went on. His voice was cracking, but he didn’t attempt to conceal it, didn’t clear his throat or pretend that he was not also close to tears. “My dearest Demelza. I know you can’t trust me again straight away. I’ll have to try to earn that back from you. Will you let me try, darling?” 

Demelza’s mouth trembled, and her breath broke on a sob. She didn’t speak, or _couldn’t_ speak – a torrent of sobs followed the first, and Ross dropped his arm and watched her cry, desperate to reach out and comfort her but acutely aware that his comfort was not wanted – and aware, too, that the pain she showed now must be a mere fraction of what she must have been going through, these past months. His heartache in watching the storm of anguish break upon her was nothing, _nothing_ compared to the hurt he had inflicted on her by his stupid actions and foolish words in the days, weeks, months since that fateful letter had arrived from Trenwith. He would watch her sob in misery now, and count it as a just punishment. It was nothing more than he deserved.

“You don’t mean it,” Demelza managed after a while, when her tears had eased a little. “You _can’t_ mean it.”

Ross took her hands in his, and kissed the knuckles of each hand. “I do, Demelza,” he said. “I should have known it long ago, but I’ve been a fool.” She didn’t try to pull away from him; she let him hold her hands without objection. “I know you can’t forgive me now,” Ross murmured. “I know you can’t trust me. I’ve broken that trust, and treated you…as you never deserved to be treated. All I ask is that you let me try.” She was still crying, great fat tears that rolled down her cheeks but that no longer dragged sobs from her throat. Ross chafed against his own impotence, but he still didn’t dare try to offer her more comfort. Every sign she gave that she might stay was offset by the knowledge that her trunks were packed, that all was in readiness for her to flee at a moment’s notice. “Please,” he said. Tears were welling in his own eyes, choking him with the force of it. “Please let me try. My darling Demelza, my love…”

“Ross,” she whispered. “Don’t, Ross.”

“Don’t say that I love you?” he demanded. Tears stung at his eyes, and he blinked them away impatiently. “Does it hurt so much? Do you feel nothing for me any longer, have I made you hate me so much?”

“I don’t hate you,” Demelza said, clutching at his hands. “I tried, and I _did_ , I did hate you when I couldn’t – when I couldn’t do what you did, and go with another, I thought myself trapped and you free to do as you liked without care for my feelings –,”

“Demelza –,”

“But I can’t, I _can’t_ hate you,” she wept. “And I can’t bear it if you don’t mean what you say now, Ross! Don’t – don’t _lie_ to me because you think it’s what you must say to make me stay!”

“I’m not lying,” Ross insisted. “You’ve asked me to be honest, and God knows, I’ve not always known myself as well as I ought, but I tell you truthfully, I love _you_ , and I want _you_ , and Elizabeth will _never_ come between us again.” Demelza shook her head. Her lips were parted as if she wanted to speak, but she said nothing. Ross tried to think of something else to say, some other method to communicate with her when words were failing and when physical contact was so very unwanted. “May we not try?” he asked at last. “Will you not give me a chance? I know…I know it must be my last, I know that. But a chance, Demelza?”

Demelza closed her eyes. Her breathing was uneven, hitching every few breaths, though the tears seemed to have ceased, at least for now. Ross’s own cheeks were wet, tears trickling down his face, salt leeching into his mouth when he licked his lips. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, for he perceived that she was balanced on a knife edge, torn between two paths, between two conflicting instincts. He knew which way he wanted her to fall, but he could not, _would_ not, try to sway her, for fear that she would retreat, and thus journey onto the other path. He could not envisage a life without her, and yet that reality was so perilously close now. A life without her, when he had at last realised what he should never have lost sight of – that she was the love of his life, the true source of his happiness, his comfort and companion and dearest wife.

Minutes ticked by. Ross’s old ankle injury was beginning to ache from his position on the floor, kneeling before her, but he refused to move unless she sent him away. Still Demelza sat silent, her hands loosely clasped in his, her eyes closed. And then, at last, she took in a breath and let it out, slowly. At last she opened her eyes again and looked down at him. Ross waited for her decision, for her judgement. A chance was all he asked, but perhaps it was too much, even now. Perhaps his honesty this evening, at long last, had been too long in coming. Her patience was not infinite, nor could he expect it to be.

She gently disentangled her hands from his. “I need a handkerchief,” she said quietly. “Do you have one?” Ross fumbled in his coat pockets, found a crumpled handkerchief, and held it out for her. Demelza almost took it from him, but she hesitated, and then she let her hands fall into her lap. “Help me?” she asked. Ross’s breath caught in his throat, but he hurried to obey before she could change her mind. Gently, tenderly, he dried her cheeks. Her breath was warm on his fingers, her eyes were fixed upon his, and she held herself still while he tended to her. Then, before he could withdraw, she caught hold of his hand and brought it to her lips. She kissed his palm, then put his palm to her cheek. “I’m very tired,” she murmured. “I should go to bed.”

“Of course.” Ross didn’t move, for she kept her hand over his, prolonging the contact, and he would not be the one to end it. It felt like a balm, touching her like this, because he knew she would not allow it if she had firmly decided to leave. That she would stay was still in question, but she was no longer set on going and Ross would count that as a victory. 

“But I should like you to hold me,” said Demelza, glancing away from him, as if she feared his rejection, and did not want to see him if he did so. “If you truly mean what you say.” Ross inhaled, opened his mouth, but Demelza let his hand fall away from her face and shook her head, silencing him. “If you’ve any doubt at all,” she said, “then don’t. I couldn’t bear it if…” She trailed off, but Ross knew what she would not say. She couldn’t bear it if he made promises and then broke them. She could not bear to have her heart broken again. 

Ross swallowed, and nodded. “I have no doubts,” he said, “and never should have had doubts. I’ll do whatever I can to prove it to you.” Demelza sighed a little, and Ross pressed his lips together tightly to keep promises from spilling out. He could promise, he could swear that he knew himself at long last, that his thoughts were clear and no links remained between his heart and Elizabeth’s. He could do that, but Demelza would tell him that words were easy to say. She had suggested already that he was lying because he thought he could keep her here by doing so. Time would serve to prove him truthful; time, and tender affection when she would accept it, and a willingness to do whatever she needed him to do, to prove the worth of his vows.

“If I ask you to come upstairs,” Demelza said quietly, “it will only be for – for holding me. Not for anything more.”

“Of course not,” Ross agreed. “Whatever you want. Anything, Demelza. If you tell me to stay in the library –,”

“No,” Demelza interrupted him. “No, I...I should like you to hold me.” She made to rise, and Ross gathered the bowl and soiled dressings before standing and falling back a pace to give her room. “I’ll put that to soak,” she said, gesturing at the bandages, but Ross shook his head and said that he would do it. Demelza’s glance was incredulous, but Ross held firm, and she gave way easily enough. “I’ll go upstairs,” she murmured. “Will you...will you come up?”

“Of course,” Ross nodded. “In a few minutes.” 

He let Demelza go first, and though he was sure she would stay, still he was relieved when he heard her footsteps on the stairs. He waited until she had reached the upstairs landing, and then he went to the kitchen to discard the dirty water and set the bandages to soak in fresh water. He washed his hands, splashed cold water on his face, then found his hands were trembling and realised that he was afraid still, as afraid as he had been half an hour before when he had realised that she was leaving him. A reconciliation of sorts had occurred, but it was still tenuous, and though she had invited him back into their bedroom, Ross was terribly aware that they had a long way to go before they could resume the easy, loving relationship they had once had – the relationship he had squandered so hastily, in a few hours’ bitter passion.

He mounted the stairs, walked along the landing, knocked on the bedroom door and then pushed it open. Demelza was standing beside the bed. She had undressed to her shift, and unpinned her hair so it fell in waves about her face. She looked tense, her jaw set and her lips pursed, and she watched him enter the bedroom as if he was a danger to her, as if he might hurt her again. He had hurt her deeply enough, these past months, and Ross knew he must harden himself against such looks while he tried to regain her trust and her faith. But though he knew he deserved it, still it pained him to see such distrust in her expression. He hesitated for a moment in the doorway, but then Demelza jerked her head towards the bed, and bent to pull back the bedclothes. Ross stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

“Tell me what you want,” he entreated. “What may I do?”

Demelza didn’t look at him as she fussed with the blankets and sheets. “Take your boots off,” she said. “And – and your coat, but not…” She trailed off and busied herself with plumping the pillows – unnecessarily, from what Ross could see. Perhaps she was occupying herself with busywork to keep from second guessing her invitation. Ross was determined to obey her every request; if she changed her mind, he would go and not protest it. He would prove himself worthy of her trust, inch by inch. If leaving her tonight was the start of that, then he would do it, no matter how much it might pain him to go.

He stepped further into the room and sat down at the dressing table. He took his boots off first, then his coat and, after a moment’s thought, discarded his waistcoat also. Demelza had seated herself on the bed, feet still on the floor, but when Ross rose and went to his old side of the bed, she swung her legs up and lay down, flat on her back, hands resting on her stomach. She stared up at the ceiling while Ross got into the bed beside her. He settled onto his side, unwilling to look away from her, and after a few minutes Demelza glanced at him, almost shyly. Then she turned onto her side, facing away from him.

“May I not even look at you?” Ross asked, unable to keep a note of bitterness from his voice. Demelza sighed, and Ross cursed himself silently. But then Demelza shuffled back a little in the bed, a little more towards the centre, and she reached a hand behind her, searching for something. Ross was slow to understand her intent, but then he gave her his hand, and let her pull his arm across her, over her waist. There was a moment’s fumbling, a few awkward breaths as they tried to fit together anew, and then they settled into a comfortable position. His arm around her waist, their hands clasped together close to her heart. Ross’s face was near-buried in Demelza’s curls, and his other arm was likely to go to sleep before long, but that didn’t matter.

“Don’t let go,” Demelza whispered. Then: “I am so _tired_.” She did not mean mere physical weariness, Ross knew, and he clutched her hand tighter and nodded. 

“Me, too,” he said softly. “I won’t let go, my love. Never again.” She sighed once more, and then he felt some tension bleed out of her, a conscious relaxing of her muscles, that seemed to indicate a lessening of her flight instinct. He could not see it, but he imagined that she closed her eyes. For a long while she was clearly awake, lying there in his embrace, but eventually he felt and heard her breathing become deep and even. He pictured her face as she fell asleep, the soft lines of slumber, the way her lips would part slightly, the graceful line of her eyelashes against her skin. He tried to stay awake, to appreciate fully the joy of holding Demelza like this, the tender affection that bloomed in his heart at the feel of her stomach rising and falling beneath his arm, the sheer relief of knowing that she was granting him a chance to restore their marriage. But in the end sleep came for him, too, and he slipped into slumber still holding her close.


End file.
